


Go Your Own Way

by anotherdestielshipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Addiction, Alternate Universe, Drug Use, M/M, Recovery, WIP, trigger warning: drug abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-20 13:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12433836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdestielshipper/pseuds/anotherdestielshipper
Summary: Castiel meets Dean on the road to recovery. Not much else to say besides the fact that the difficulty of getting clean and falling in love is a little harder when the person you're in love with is a faceless gruff voice on the other side of the phone halfway across the country.TW for graphic drug abuse, but spoiler-not-so-spoiler: recovery is possible.





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> * WIP, I'm almost finished with it and would love feedback. *

With white knuckles he gripped the sink basin in his bathroom. His face, obscured by the grime of the mirror, stared back at him painfully. A light voice in the back of his mind whispered: “Who the fuck am I?” 

And he shoved his hand down his front pocket, pulled out his phone, and punched Balthazar’s number in. The phone rang a few times before his annoying-as-all-fuck European accent greeted Castiel’s ear. 

“I need more,” he growled. His stomach was in knots. Sweat beads were rolling down the back of his neck and his hands, if there weren’t clenched, were shaking uncontrollably. Three days he had gone without. And now, he was willing to say that he didn’t want to wait anymore. 

“Oh no you don’t,” sang Balthazar. 

“You shut your fucking mouth, when can I go pick up more? I don’t care how much I have to pay you, I need more.” His soul felt like it was rattling inside the cage of his body, inside his skin, screaming for a way out of the misery that he was putting himself through. 

“You’re not getting any more because I’ve, uh, decided to change professions, Cassie,” Balthazar twirled one of his rawhide necklaces between his fingers while he waited for Castiel to answer.

“Don’t FUCK WITH ME, BALTHAZAR!” He brought his fist down on the basin and felt like the screaming voice inside him was silenced in the deep thrum of pain.

“Listen, you bloody idiot,” the disgust in his voice rang through Castiel and sat next to the soft voice that was telling him he should not get high anymore. “It isn’t my fault you’ve gone and gotten yourself addicted to my stuff, but I’m all out. Fucken zilch! Nada! So if you want more goodies, find them elsewhere or get the fuck clean, I’m not feeding your habit anymore, ‘kay?”

Whatever self-control Castiel had in the past three days gave way to the dam of anger and frustration that he had boarded with drugs.   
“No! No no no no no no! FUCKING NO BALTHAZAR! You can’t fucking do this to me!!!”  
He screamed so hard, he saw stars when he opened his eyes. The phone in his hand was wet with perspiration. But Balthazar was still on the line, probably waiting for his tantrum to pass. He pressed the phone to his ear again and tried to breathe. The breath got stuck half way in.

“And yet, I am,” was all Balthazar said before hanging up. 

Unable to stop his entire body from spasming, Castiel felt the phone falling out of his hand, his vision blurry, and he could barely find the floor before tripping out of the bathroom and into the bedroom to find Anna asleep on her side. The needle had barely left her hand by the time she was asleep. He pressed his palm on the floor while looking at Anna. His beautiful best friend. And then he doubled over, one hand clutching his belly while his palm tried to merge with the floor as he retched. 

By the time he had finished, his arm was numb from holding him up and he used all the strength he could muster to push himself backward that way he didn’t fall on his own vomit. He looked at Anna. The usual fall and rise of her shoulders as she slept into the euphoria was missing. With his vision still graying around the edges, Castiel got up and staggered to the bed. He collapsed close to her and rose a shaking hand to her face and caressed her warm skin down to her neck. 

No pulse. 

His breath failed to come to him. He pressed his open palm to her chest and failed to feel any sign of a beat.   
The small voice that had started getting louder in his mind with the effects of the drugs wearing off screamed for her. It gave him the physical power that he didn’t have to pick her up and put her in his car, to start the car and floor it out of the driveway of their house. To run three stoplights in a row before the impact came. 

Glass shattered and dug into his skin, dragged down his skin, cut open his skin. He felt Anna’s hair brush up against his face, the steering wheel being yanked out of his hand, his ribs colliding with something that hurt so fucking much and tires screeching, someone screaming. Everything was so red. Everything was so fucking red. 

And then nothing.

 

The beeping woke him up.   
The beeping and the screaming of that familiar voice—not the one that was jumpy and accelerated, not the one that just wanted to fly—the one that was an anchor to reality, the one that asked him, didn’t tell him. Now it was screaming. Now it was loud. Now, it was giving him the biggest headache of his fucking life. He tried opening his eyes and found that the entire world was a blur. Time had possibly stopped and taunted him, sat on his chest and didn’t let him breathe. He felt like even his organs were bruised. What kind of night did he have? What did he take? What didn’t he take? 

And then there was the voice again. It was speaking some sort of language that he did not understand. And he understood two. Was there something he was supposed to remember? 

Did he finally try the smack Anna had? Is this what a smack hangover felt like? Because, shit, he is never going near that shit again if this is what this is. He’s gotta tell Anna.

Anna. 

Anna. 

ANNA? 

ANNA! 

That’s what the fuck it was saying, just over and over again. Where is his best friend? WHERE IS ANNA? 

His body went into a panic and it all came back; the retching, the pulse, no pulse, her hair, the glass, they were driving, where’s the car? 

Where am I? 

But his thoughts were interrupted again, the beeping got so loud he choked out a sound and tried to grab at it. He was definitely high, that much he could feel, it was in the sluggish euphoria that echoed in his bones that he felt high—god that’s so amazing. But the headache was so persistent, he probably needed another dose, preferably stronger, for this headache. 

And then a stupid voice took over.   
A stupid fucking British voice. 

“You fuckin unplug him right now, you bastard, did you not hear me? He’s a bloody addict! YOU CAN’T GIVE MORPHINE TO AN ADDICT YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” and shoes scuffled, something fell on the floor with a loud bang, Balthazar screamed at more people somewhere far off and Castiel just chuckled to himself and felt the wave of pleasure envelope him lovingly. 

 

 

There was something missing.   
Clearly, something was missing.   
Or maybe, a lot of things were missing and he just didn’t miss them yet.  
Through his eyelids, he could feel light. He pushed through the clutter in his mind to try to open them. Even that hurt. What the hell was going on?   
A grunt escaped his lips, the effort was ridiculous, he felt like he was made of sand. He was coming undone as he was trying to put himself together. 

A hand steadied him, it was cool and soft. “Ann, what am I on?” his voice sounded raspy and unused, it was a combination of sandpaper and steel wool. His throat felt like it had been set on fire and then stomped out with stiletto heels. 

“Oh, darling Cassie, it’s just me,” Balthazar whispered. His voice came from somewhere at Castiel’s left and he tried to chase it, to see if maybe with a familiar presence, his eyes would open.   
And they did. 

Balthazar looked at him from the chair that he was sitting on, his black t-shirt being an object of focus to Castiel’s freshly opened eyes. He tried to say something and all that came out was an “ergh”. 

 

Ten hours later, it was Balthazar who told him about Anna. 

 

Fifteen hours later, his body went into shock, into a violent convulsion of withdrawal that left him in the hospital for an additional three days. 

 

Ninety-six hours later, he walked out of the hospital sporting a healing sprained wrist and anxiety medication. His car, completely totaled in the crash that helped claim Anna’s life, was replaced by Balthazar’s, who watched him like a hawk for the entirety of the time he was in the hospital. 

He rented him a room and took care of selling Castiel’s studio. Took all the valuables, mainly books and pictures of Anna, and brought them to his spare bedroom. In the first week, Castiel spoke for the first time when Balthazar apologized to him. Balthazar clutched his hand, kneeled next to an unresponsive Castiel, and pleaded for forgiveness. “You stupid bastard, I’m so sorry for feeding this monster. Had I known it was this destructive, god had I only known this would hurt you and Anna in the end, I would never have done it. I’m a bloody wanker, and idiot, and it cost Anna her life. I threw you into that withdrawal. It’s all my bloody, fucking fault,” his tears fell on Castiel’s hand and poured down to his fingertips. He lifted his index and caressed Balthazar’s cheek with it. 

“It’s okay,” his voice croaked just as it had in the hospital. “This isn’t your fault, Bal. We didn’t know how strong it is.”   
And with that, Castiel looked away from Balthazar and closed his eyes.   
The exhaustion was impossible to compare, it was impossible for him to pinpoint what was making him so tired. But he slept all day and all night, he barely got up to pee. He watched Balthazar walk in and out of his own apartment, watched the pity in Balthazar’s eyes as he brought him food. But there was nothing that he could have done in order to give a shit. And even about that, he didn’t feel bad.

 

Fifteen days after he had left the hospital, Castiel asked Balthazar if he could have access to his bank accounts. Balthazar tightened his jaw. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of money in the bank, the abundance thereof is what really worried Balthazar. In the short years he’d followed his line of work, he’d seen so many rich boys become snow queens and live their short little lives off of snow and smack. He just didn’t want that for Castiel. Not because he wasn’t the one selling it to him or anything. But because he cared or whatever that word was. So instead, he gave Castiel his cards back and his phone to make the calls he needed to make. And sent a message to Bela Talbot. He needed to disappear and get the fuck away from here as soon as humanly possible because a stranger as a snow queen was more preferable than one of your best friends as a dope fiend. 

That night, while he suspected that Castiel was asleep, he found some numbers, called some old friends, made a list, and wrote a note to Castiel. 

By five in the morning, he was on his way to the airport, flying to meet Talbot in Amsterdam for what she said was going to be a “fun few days”. So he didn’t think back to Castiel. He just sighed and said to himself the same line, attempting to use it as a rolling pin to alleviate some of the worry inside of him. “After all, you can’t help an addict if they don’t want to help themselves,” he muttered as he rolled his suitcase in the airplane. 

 

He wasn’t angry. 

He was furious.   
He was livid. 

He was burning fire from the inside out, his ears were probably blowing steam like cartoons did.   
And then he saw the note, written in Balthazar’s stupid British handwriting, and something in his heart made him breathe. 

“Sixteen days clean, by the time that you read this, please heed my warning. Do not let the monster win this fight, you are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. Anna knew this, and so do I. Love, Bal. 

P.S., if you need a hand, I googled some good places. Give them a call if you decide to stay sober. I’ll be proud of you. 

P.S.S., your future is in your hands. not in the hands of your addiction.”

 

Then the fury took over again. He grabbed his phone, punched the numbers in. Who gave him the right to act like he wasn’t even a little bit responsible for this? Who made him think he could just up and leave Castiel with no one. LITERALLY NO ONE. How fucking dare you, Balthazar? You’re the scum of this fucking earth!

But the phone rang and rang and there was no stupid British voice at the end of the line. He threw his phone across the room and screamed. He screamed until he saw stars in his eyes and his face felt hot and swollen. He screamed even more, until his throat hurt him so much that it felt like someone had poured acid down it. He screamed until nothing came out but a thin squeak, a whimper. He was on the floor for hours. His belly didn’t grumble, his head pounded against the cool wooden floor, his lips were separated and dry. It hurt to think and he didn’t want to think. What gave Balthazar the right to assume—to ASSUME—that Castiel would get high? Why did he think so little of him? What was wrong with Castiel? There was nothing wrong with Castiel. He just wanted something to calm his headache, is all. 

Then he called Meg. 

“Yes?” She sounded annoyed and sassy, but Castiel knew that was her normal mood. 

“It’s Clarence,” he grumbled into the phone. 

“Clarence, my pretty opiate whore, eh?” She chuckled into the phone. Castiel was angry, just because she thought she was better. She was no better. She was probably fond of something too. 

“I need a dose,” he tried to push away the protests from his mind. “Uh, just one,” he added before she could speak. His face was still pressed to the floor. 

“How big?” 

“Just some regular oxy, pills,” he felt the shame burn his cheeks.   
“Just pills? Jesus, Clarence, what happened? Are we losing our touch? Are you losing your touch? Don’t tell me you’re getting bored with the ope, honey. There’s always something better.” 

He grunted into the phone. “Just fucking bring it to Balthazar’s, you fucking asshole.” And hung up. He knew they wouldn’t try to do anything to him. He had all the money. It was because of him that Balthazar and them had flourished. No one else. Just him. They owed this to him.


	2. Chapter 2

He went to his backpack. As painful and exhausting it had been for him, he went outside earlier that day and walked to the bank. He withdrew five hundred dollars. Now, he took some of the cash out and placed it in an envelope. Outside of the envelope, he wrote “Thank you” and went to the front door. He waited until there were footsteps that approached and stopped in front of the door. After the man knocked, the slid the envelope through the bottom of the door, just to show that it was there and pulled it back. “Give it to me under the door,” he said loudly, so that the other man would know what to do. He did. And Castiel gave him the envelope. He had already prepared the water that was in the cup. The cup stood in front of him while he took his time to undress the pill, like he was undressing a lover. In a way, he felt like he was. He was in love with it. It was his one happiness. He loved everything to do with it. 

He didn’t let it start to sizzle on his tongue before swallowing it. Instead, he just swallowed. Let the pill slide back into his throat and start dissolving. He looked at the screen of his phone. In about an hour he should start to feel the high. He got his water bottle and drank it until there was nothing left in it. And when he finished he got up and drank some more water. He went to the sofa but didn’t made it on top of the cushions. Instead, he laid down on the floor, his face on the wood and his hands outstretched above him. He wanted to fly. 

He was asleep by the time it sizzled through his veins. It woke him up like a rush of cold water. Except that, upon opening his eyes, he felt the warmth. That all-comforting, better-than-your-mom’s-hugs kind of warm. Like he was wrapped in a burrito of good and blankets of right and like nothing in the world was ever wrong and could ever be wrong. He was high. And he was good. Which meant that he could finally listen to that screeching voice inside him, no? 

But the voice wasn’t there and his mind was void of sounds. He felt the warmth through his skin, like he was floating in a pool of lukewarm, just right water. And his body felt nothing but bliss. That is good. Everything was good. Maybe now he could give some thought to getting clean. Maybe now he could get clean. 

He dragged himself across the floor. Every movement rippled the orgasmic pleasure on his skin. He smiled and closed his eyes to feel the sensations better. This was what he wanted. This was what he was. Everything was so fucking good. 

Balthazar’s going away note was somewhere near his books. He plucked it away and plopped himself right back to the floor. He was going to talk to those people Balthazar said to talk to. Just to tell them that he, Castiel James Novak, was not addicted and that if he wanted to, he could get sober and clean right up. But he really didn’t want to, and that was the key to it. They can all eff off with their stupid judgmental phone lines. Fucking pricks. 

And that was what he was going to say, probably lower than he thought it, but he was going to say it anyways. To the first place that he called, Heaven’s Roadhouse. What the fuck kind of stupid name is that anyways? Who names their drug center that? Fucking idiots. 

Instead of dialing, he clicked the photo gallery icon on his phone. A picture of Anna became full screen and looked up at him. Her red hair highlighting her porcelain features. She looked happy and alive. He swept for the next picture and it was them two. And the next was a picture of the books she had bought for him. The one after that was her again. He had so many pictures of her, he had no idea what to do with them. How was he supposed to fill that hole left by her absence? How was he supposed to make himself okay if Anna wasn’t? 

He looked at her pictures and his bliss started to crumble. It became tender at first and then it stopped moving altogether. Instead, it bubbled on his head. The heat started at his neck and crept to the crown of his head and the bags under his eyes quaked with that unbearable bubbling heat. The tears began to fall faster than he thought was possible. His face felt hot but when the tears caught his skin and begun to slide, the temperature was hotter. He misses her. He will always miss her. There is no part of him that will never miss her. The smell of her hair is foreign to him now because he couldn’t even remember it and here he was doing the exact thing to himself that Anna did to herself before she died.   
What if getting high was not the solution to this?

Before he knew it, a gruff voice pressed into his ear. He had called Heaven’s Roadhouse and apparently had been waiting for someone to answer. And someone did. 

“Huh?” he said. He tried to sniffle up and away the tears and the snot that was in his way, but he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and sobbed, as silently as he could while the voice on the other end of the line spoke. 

“Good evening, this is Dean at Heaven’s Roadhouse, is there anything that I can help you with?”

But nothing would come out of Castiel’s mouth. Only sobs and his body shuddered. Where was the euphoria? Where did it go?

“Hey, uh, this is Dean. What’s going on? You wanna talk about it?”   
He sniffled some more. The more he heard this guy’s voice, the more relaxed he felt. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of this cool-chill-and-relaxed guy. He coughed because he couldn’t breathe. But there was still silence on the other line. It didn’t sound like Dean had hung up. He breathed out shakily and tried to speak, “can you talk?” 

Well, that was a stupid question. Obviously he could talk, Castiel, that’s exactly what he was just doing.   
He closed his eyes but nausea and dizziness made him open them right away. His world felt like a Salvador Dali painting. He felt like he was sliding off the floor and into nothing. This was not a good high. 

“What?” Dean had asked. 

“No, um,” he paused and coughed again, unable to breathe because his mouth and his nose hurt from the screaming and the crying. “Can you talk, to me? I don’t want to talk, please,” he must really sound terrible, probably like he just got hit by an eighteen-wheeler, because without a skip in the beat, Dean started talking.

“Um, uh, I’m Dean. This is Heaven’s Roadhouse. This is a counseling center and a rehabilitation center for people who are addicts, regardless of what they are addicted to, and we are here to help and advise to the best of our abilities anyone that needs help.”

“I’m not that,” Castiel said. 

“You’re not what?” 

“The a thing you said. That’s not me.”

“So why are you calling?”

“Because neither was Anna.”

“Anna? Was?”

“You know what I—no. She—no. She’s not one. I’m not one.”

“Okay. So why are you calling?”

“Because you need to know that.”

“I don’t. Is there something that I can help you with?”

Castiel sighed. They weren’t those things. These people are liars.   
But Anna. He was alone. And she was buried in the cemetery near his parents. She was buried and he buried her and no one gave a shit about her because all she ever was to them was an addict! She was a person and she was alive and he loved her more than anything in the world and someone took that away from him and he wanted it fucking back. All these people that said that word, those words to them, all of them. It was their fault. They are the reasons she’s gone. 

But instead of saying this, he was sobbing again. He was sobbing and it was ugly and it strangled his lungs and his head felt so heavy it might as well be a planet, and the high was thrown away somewhere in the back of his mind because it wasn’t there to ease the blow anymore. It wasn’t there. No one was there. 

“She’s dead,” he finally said. Was Dean still on the line?

“Anna?” Yes, guess he is still on the line.

“Anna, yeah.”

“Is she dead right now? Is she near you? Does Anna need medical attention?” There was a moment where, if Castiel was not so high, he could have felt and heard the alarm in Dean’s voice. Instead, he heard the nice, flowing way that Dean talked. Dean wasn’t high. Dean was missing out. 

“No. She… Unless you can get medical attention into a casket six feet under, she doesn’t need it.” 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been snarky. But snark was something he had and possessed as a talent, whether he was sober or high. He had that with him forever.   
Which is why he wasn’t even offended when he heard Dean chuckle and try to mask it by coughing loudly into the phone. 

“Sorry, em, did she die a long time ago?”

“I think sixteen days ago?”

“Why do you think sixteen days ago?”

“Because I do?”

“No, why aren’t you sure that it was sixteen days ago? Why aren’t you sure of the time? Do you know what time it is right now?”

“Yes. It’s nine something. She died and I can’t remember the days because they’re not there anymore.”

“Hmm, I understand.”  
Castiel was almost breathing normally again. His nasal passages still felt like they had small hamsters of goo and rock in them but he could breathe from his mouth. The high was returning to his shoulders, it was going to cascade back down his body. 

Dean said nothing. Castiel listened to him breathing softly on the other line. His eyes started to droop as the high caressed his back and chest. 

“I’m Castiel.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m Castiel. That’s my name.”

“That’s, uh, a mouthful, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s biblical.”

“Well, eh, good to meet you Cas.”

“Good—“

“Sorry, um, Castiel.”

“to meet you too Dean. Cas is okay, if you want.”

“Oh nice, there is no way I was going to remember that tomorrow. Cas sounds good.”

“I lied.”

“Sorry?”

“I lied. I’m not Castiel.”

“No? Then who are you?”

“I am high. Good to meet you,” he burst in a fit of giggles. The bliss was back and it pressed into every crevice of his body, it smoothed out all of the imperfections, it made him feel so good and so okay with all of it. 

“Hmm, I see.”

Silence, again. 

“Does it hurt?”

“What?”

“Does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt?”

“When you stop getting high, does that hurt?”

“It depends. It is all different per person. I know that when I first started getting sober, it hurt like a bitch. My head, my joints, my stomach, not to mention my ass. I had diarrhea for a good month, nonstop. Everything hurt so much I wanted to get drunkuse again just to help ease it off. But there are other people that don’t experience all of the withdrawal symptoms. There are people who experience all of them, from the diarrhea to the loss of speech. But it all depends on the person. I know for a fact that when I stopped drinking, I felt like I was constantly getting body slammed by a sumo wrestler that smelled like whiskey.”

“I don’t want it to hurt,” he whispered into the phone. He had moved into fetal position on the couch. The phone was cradled between his shoulder and his ear. He wasn’t lying. He didn’t want it to hurt.

“How do you know for sure it will? Are you currently in treatment, Cas?” 

“No. I’m high.”

“Do you want to get clean, Cas?”

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die like Anna. She’s gone. And it was in that needle. It was whatever is in that needle. It killed her.”

“Did Anna use heroin? Smack?”

“Yes,” he whispered into the phone. Maybe if he whispered it, it would go away. 

“Do you use smack?”

“No.”

“Would you mind telling me what you use?”

“Opes.” 

“Opes? Hmm, which ones?”

“All of them. Except the mother. All the others, yes.”

“How do you take them, Cas?”

“Pills, mostly, I like feeling how they dissolve. I snorted before. Don’t like it. I’ve never used the needle. But I was going to. I knew someday.”

“Not anymore?”

“Huh?”

“You said you knew, that you were going to. You’re not going to anymore? You don’t’ want to do it in the future?”

“Anna’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“Because of the needle.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want it.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to take it, you know that Cas? That’s the greatest part about free will. I never thought it was such a big deal. Until I wanted to get sober. It was only then that I understood how important free will is. Without free will, we get no willpower. We can’t submit ourselves to the will of others, even and especially when that other is an addiction.”

“I’m not that. I don’t have one of those.”

“That’s okay. I’m telling you about me. I was an addict. I am an addict. I have been sober for two years. But I was drunk for seven. I got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’m high for five.”

“I understand, Cas. Do you want to get clean?”

Castiel whimpered. He shook his head and his tears rushed to his eyes and fell like large crocodile tears on the screen of his phone and on the sofa.

“It’s okay, Cas.”

“No it’s not. Anna’s dead. That’s my fault.”

“No it isn’t Cas. That’s not on you. Sometimes things happen and we think that they are our fault and they are not.”  
“Yes it is!” He said it more forcefully and his tried to press his body deeper into the creases of the sofa. 

“No Cas, it isn’t. You wanna know how I know that? When I was seventeen, my dad died. He wrapped his friend’s car around a tree. My brother got sent to group homes. Me? I was sent to a whole different one. I didn’t get to see my fourteen year old brother for almost a year. And in that year that my dad killed himself and I was alone and my brother was alone, my brother met someone. They gave him the needle. My dad got drunk and wrapped his friend’s car around a tree because I came out to him. Well, it was more like he walked in on me. And saw me. With another guy. We were seventeen. We weren’t in love. We were exploring. ‘Coz that’s what kids do, you know? Kids are supposed to do that. Anyways, he blamed me. He didn’t die right away, you know. When he crashed, there was someone on site less than a half hour later and they took him to the hospital. When we went to go meet him, the only thing he said to me was that it was my fault I was in the hospital. Me and my queer obsessions are the reasons he is dying.   
And then he died, you know? Well, anyways, I spent a large part of my adult life completely convinced that his death was my fault. It is why I became an alcoholic. And then, when my brother was high and in the streets, I blamed myself for all of that. So I got even more drunk. Point is, Cas, it wasn’t my fault. Sometimes, all these ugly things that happen to us, they’re not our fault or anyone’s fault. Blame is only useful for pointing a finger, it doesn’t solve anything Cas.”

“Is your brother alive?”

“Yes. He is.”

“Good.” Cas was tired, to say the least. Exhaustion swept over him completely. He felt the deep thrum of his high still at the core of his bones. But it felt good, like the aftermath of waves, like a personal massage on his bones that he needed and hadn’t had for a long time. 

“He’s, uh, actually the reason I’m here, talking to you, Cas.”

“Huh?”

“When my brother started getting clean, it made me start getting sober. He actually got clean here, at Heaven’s Roadhouse. The president of the company, the matron and mastermind of this awesome place, she actually got married to my uncle Bobby. But that is because Bobby found that Sammy was here and he closed up shop in Dakota and flew here like his life depended on it. And he and Ellen were the ones that got me to join the program, got me to join here. I’m clean because of my brother, Cas. Was Anna your sister?”

“She could have been. She was kind of. Not blood. But love. We grew up together. Our parents married. Then they divorced.”

“I see.”

“Do you tell that story to everyone?”

“What?”

“The people that call, do you tell them that?”

“A lot of people that call and that are in the programs here know the story about my brother and I but not a lot of people know that Uncle Bobby and Ellen are married or that that’s the reason why Sammy and I are still here in Florida.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

“Thank you.”

“Huh? There’s, uh, no need to thank me, Cas. I’m here whenever you need me.”

“Thank you for that. The high is settling into my bones. I’m falling asleep.”

“Oh, okay. Good night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

 

\----

Dean felt the line go dead and looked at the time. In total, he had been speaking to Cas for three hours. Talking, just talking, felt different for him. Sure, he talked all the time. But this guy, this Cas at the other end of the line, he was something that Dean had never experienced before. And Dean felt good that, even if he couldn’t get Castiel to get clean, he could help him in any other way possible. In his line of work, he saw so many people that called centers like HR and went to programs like the ones at HR and never got better, never got clean or sober because that thing, the monster that they fed inside them, was so strong that they didn’t want to get their will from them again. He hoped that Cas wasn’t one of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a bit to post, I forgot. Let me know what you think!


	3. 3

The next morning he woke shaking. His head felt like it was being squeezed at the temples by a machine and his body felt washed out. He failed his three attempts at getting up. He didn’t want to get up. But he really needed to pee. So he rolled off the couch and to the floor. From the floor he dragged himself to the bathroom and pulled himself up there. He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror. He felt like he had done something wrong but had no idea what that could have been. His heart started racing heavily in his chest. It was so heavy it felt like each beat took thrice as long as before but it was beating so fast, Castiel could barely feel it fluttering in his chest. 

He poured himself a cup of water and checked the cabinets for tea. He poured himself a large cup of green tea and sat on the couch. His head hurt but not as much as it did earlier. And his eyes hurt and felt swollen, they felt like there was something pressing on them, trying to get them to close.

He sat crosslegged on the sofa and looked down at the floor. He had been charging his phone while he made tea. The thought of a shower passed his mind but he shook it off. He didn’t need to go anywhere. He just needed to see what was going on, inside him. 

Before he knew it, he was looking through his call history and pressing the Call button on Heaven’s Roadhouse. He looked at the time before putting the phone to his ear. It was seven in the morning. 

“Good morning, this is Heaven’s Roadhouse, Garth speaking, may I help you?”

Castiel took a deep breath in. “Garth? I—good morning—I wanted to know if Dean was there?”

“Hey, uh, lemme check, ‘kay brochacho? May I know who is a-callin’?” 

“Cas.” I hope he remembers me. 

“Cool’m. One sec, Cas,” he pressed the button to put the call on hold. He looked over at Winchester. There were like thirty minutes left in his shift. If Dean asked him, he knew he would take a message and give that message to him when he saw him at 8:30 that night.

“Hey, uh, ‘chester?” 

Dean looked at him with the same confused face he always did whenever Garth gave him a new nickname. “What?” he grumbled with his mouth halfway in the coffee cup.

“There’s a phone person for you. Asked for Dean. Really deep, raspy voice, kinda sexy if you ask me, it made me tingly.”

Dean spit his coffee back into his cup. There was only one person he thought of with a deep, raspy voice. A voice that made him tingly in good places, and that voice, Garth wasn’t allowed to have. “Dude. One. Don’t ever—EVER—under any circumstance tell me what makes you feel tingly. And two, did you get the name?”

“Cas? I figure he thinks you’d know the name because I have never heard him calling here. Trust me, I think I would’ve remembered,” he winked at Dean and saw Dean make a dramatic gagging gesture.

“Yeah, yeah, I know it. What line?” He rolled his eyes and put the cup back into his mouth. Garth made a disgusted face to see Dean drink from the cup he had just spit into and Dean shut him up by flipping him the finger. Good coffee was not to be wasted. After all, wasn’t Sammy always telling him he should recycle? 

“Four.”

He pressed the four button, “Heya Cas.” He smiled even though rationally he knew that Cas couldn’t see him. But he felt happy talking to Cas. It had been nice. 

“Hello, Dean,” and that deep voice resonates through his body. He struggled to compress the shiver that blew down his back.

“Heya. How are you feeling, buddy?”

“Hungover.”

“Does this happen often, Cas?”

“Balthazar forced me to be clean for sixteen days before this. I haven’t had a hangover like this in a long time. Because I am used to waking up and getting high to avoid hangovers.”

“Sixteen days? Wow, Cas, that’s a lot. I’m proud of you for that.”

“I’m not clean anymore.”

“So? You did sixteen days. Next time we can try for seventeen, no?”

“No.”

“No? Why no?”

“Why are you saying that? Aren’t you supposed to tell me I’m a shit for not staying clean like I was supposed to?”

“See, Cas, that’s the beauty about having counseling centers like this. All of our volunteers are previous addicts. We all know the struggle. We know that by screaming at ourselves, by having someone reprimand us, we aren’t going to get clean. If I relapse tomorrow, I can’t beat myself up over it. Why? Because, for one, my body is going to be doing that for me already. That’s what hangovers are, your body calling you an asshole for doing that. Listen, man, you got through sixteen days. Do you like the way that you feel right now?”

“No.”

“Okay so, what I used to do when I relapsed was use my hangover as a reminder every time I wanted to start drinking again. It worked for a while, until I got into the program and then that just reinforced my desire to get clean. So no matter how much I wanted to drink sometimes, I used the tips I learned to protect myself from that. You find rocks along the rode of that slippery river that is addiction, buddy. Don’t worry, you’re not alone.”

Castiel looked down at his mug and closed his eyes. There was nothing he could say. One part of him was clawing at the memory of those sixteen days. Hwoever painful, they felt clear to him. Like freshly cut grass, they were prominent and stood out. But there was another part of him that was kissing his neck, that dangled his bank accounts under his nose and whispered in his ear, “let’s go have some fun instead.”

“I don’t know,” he said to nothing and no one in the world. 

“And it’s okay to not know Cas. Listen, the decision that you might make is one of the biggest decisions you will ever make in your life. Whether you want to get clean and start living your life to the fullest or whether you want to live your life through the veil that is that high, you make the choice buddy, not me. But a lot of people around here can tell you that the answer that they picked is the best answer in the world.”

“What if I get high tonight?”

“Then you get high tonight, Cas. You are hurting no one but yourself with getting high tonight. So you decide whether you want to get high tonight or not. I won’t yell at you or call you nasty things by it. I understand relapses. I relapsed almost thirty times before I got off the wagon and started walking alone. I believe in you, buddy.”

“Can I call you?”

Dean said nothing. Unsure of what Cas actually meant. He’d never given out his personal number to a caller before. But then again, there are always first times, right? 

“Like on this. Here. Can I call you later?”

Oh. So that’s what he meant. 

“Yeah, sure Cas. But, uh,” he looked around to find Garth somewhere but he was no where near, “my shift is over. I actually took your call as I was leaving because I wanted to see how you were holding up. But I’ll be back today at eight-thirty, okay? Do you think you can make it til then?”   
Nice, Winchester, you’re probably making him feel like you think he is unable to control himself without you. Idiot.

“I mean, you can always talk to the others here. Garth is here almost all the time. He’s, uh, an insomniac. So he works here most nights with me and some days with Sammy or Kevin. There are also, like, girls here, if you want to, like, talk to them or whatever.” He looked down at his desk and facepalmed himself. When did he forget to speak like a man and learn how to speak like a twelve-year-old girl?

Cas cleared his throat on the other line. “No, I enjoy talking to you so far. I think I can wait until eight-thirty.”

“But if you aren’t feeling well before there, you give us a ring, okay? Everyone in this office is real good to talk to, not just me, okay?” He winked and then felt ridiculously because Cas was on the phone. He couldn’t see him wink. “But, uh, Cas? I’ll probably get here around eight and be floating around or doing paperwork. If you need to talk to me and it’s not eight-thirty, just let someone know and I’ll take your call, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got to go though, Cas. Do you want to hang up or do you want me to put you back on the phone with Garth?” 

Cas sighed softly, it was almost inaudible, but Dean heard it and he felt his stomach tighten in worrying knots. “I’ll talk to you later, Dean.”

“Okay, Cas. Have a good day, okay? Bye.”

“Good-bye, Dean.”

\--- 

The day was empty. He found himself going to the front door twice to find something and realized he had no idea what he was looking for, or if he was looking for anything. On the third time, he opened the door and stepped outside. He walked down the stairs feeling his keys jingle in his pockets. His feet hit the sidewalk hesistantly and then he started walking. He walked a lot. He walked so much, he reached the park in the middle of his neighborhood. There were a few kids playing and he didn’t want to feel like some weird guy just staring a kids playing in a playground. So he crossed the street and kept walking, without really looking at anything. His stomach didn’t grumble, he knew he wasn’t going to feel hungry. Maybe he shouldn’t even try to eat anything. 

But then Dean’s voice sounded in his head. Dean said he believed in him to try. If he didn’t eat, he would get high. Somewhere in his mind, that fact that settled. If he didn’t feed himself, he was going to feed that monster. And he didn’t want to do that anymore. So he turned around and headed to his house, stopping at a supermarket on the way. He bought vegetables and meat. He was going to make hamburgers. 

The burger-making took two hours, since he took a break halfway through to cry. The absence of Anna in his life was starting to shake his bones. He really lost her. He wasn’t ever going to have his sister again. he missed her so much. 

By the time the burgers were finished, it was eight o’clock. He ate in silence and tried not to sob, knowing he’d probably die if he choked. The floor of Balthazar’s house was cool and steady. It helped him a lot. He chewed slowly and looked straight ahead at nothing. His mind seem to have so much in it that it was void of sound, there was a buzzing around his head, like the kind produced by herds of bees or flies, and he could hear nothing above that. 

Eventually, his jaw locked and he didn’t want to eat anymore. He took his paper plate and discarded it, found his phone and looked at the locked screen for almost ten minutes. At nine, he dialed Heaven’s Roadhouse’s number and waited through the dial tone.


	4. iiii.

No, as a matter of fact, Dean Winchester was NOT freaking out. It was only eight forty-five and Cas hadn’t called. But he wasn’t freaking out. He was just concerned that Cas might have relapsed. The probability of overdosing with opiates after not taking them for a while was high. What if Cas got hurt? Would it be okay for Dean to call him at the registered number? Would Ellen give him shit if he did that behind her back? Yeah, she’d probably keep him away for unprofessionality or some shit. He might as well go ask her. 

He was standing outside her office, waiting for her to come to the door, when Jo ran up to him. “Heya, short stuff,” he said.

“Hey, giant ass. Garth was looking for you. He says you’ve got a call.”

Cas? Is it Cas? 

“Is it Cas?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know? I’m not the center’s messenger. Are you going to take it or do I tell Garth to shove it?”

“No,” he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her in front of her mother’s office door. “See ya, short stuff.” He leapt away and through the center to get to the call room. Garth was looking at him like an excited puppy. 

“The man with the godly voice is on the line,” he said, “I asked him if he wanted to speak to me instead and he said he would wait for you, if I didn’t mind. Is he an addict? Because he’s so damn polite, it’s kinda sexy.” 

Dean sighed and made a gagging face at Garth. “Dude. Don’t you ever listen? Don’t tell me about the things you find sexy or not. Dudes don’t do that.”

“Psh-yeah, says the guy who boned Benny the sponsor. Don’t you remember what those few weeks were like? For us? Let me give you a clue: Gay. As. Fuck.” 

Dean flipped him off again and put his headset on. According to the center’s calendar, Garth was off as of midnight that night. He wouldn’t have to put up with the spaghetti shaped man for longer. 

“This is Dean,” he cleared his throat.

“Hello, Dean. This is Castiel,” Castiel sounded strained, even more so than yesterday. Dean had no idea how to remedy that. But he sure as fuck was going to try to.

“Heya, Cas, how are you?”

“I made hamburgers today and I went for a walk. But I am not as well as I thought I would be.”

“That’s okay, Cas. Sometimes we actually end up hurting ourselves with expecting things from ourselves. Sometimes the best course of action is to just not think about how you will feel in the future but how you are feeling right now. It helps ease the anxiety that I have.”

“I didn’t get high.”

“I’m proud of you, Cas. Look at you. You’re awesome, dude.” 

Castiel said nothing. He just closed his eyes and pressed the phone harder against his ear. His head was between his legs and he was trying to focus on his breaths. Dean heard him struggling to focus on his breath. 

“Heya, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“You made hamburgers from scratch?” The thought alone was awesome. To put it lightly, he fucking adored home-made hamburgers. 

“Yes.”

“Like, with your own recipe? Or did you buy the frozen patties and just defrost and cook ‘em?”

“I have my own recipe. Anna taught it to me.”

“Are they any good?”

Cas felt his mouth stretch into a smile. It was the first smile in twenty-something days. Anna taught him how to make those hamburgers so well that after he made them for the first time, she refused to make any more of her own hamburgers. She would only eat hamburgers if he made them. This he told Dean.

“Really?” Dean was smiling. He felt Cas loosen up a little talking about the hamburgers. Good. “I cook a lot in my house. My brother is ten-feet-somethin’ and he’s had his stomach replaced by a black hole, so he eats a lot of stuff. By a lot of stuff, I mean he eats everything you put in front of him. It’s how I learned how to cook, because of him.” Well, it wasn’t just Sammy. It was Benny, his first sponsor, who taught him how to cook and then signed him up for classes. But he didn’t know why he didn’t tell this to Cas.

“Hamburgers are my favorite food. They are good for every occasion. I don’t know how to make anything else besides hamburgers and coffee.”

Dean chuckled, “You would’ve gotten along great with my dad then, those are the only things besides whiskey he consumed for like thirty years of his life.” Shit. Winchester! How are you going to tell him he’d get along with your father? What the hell? He mentally punched himself in the face. Snap the fuck out of it! You don’t even know if he’s gay! 

“Oh,” was all Cas said. Dean’s dad was dead, he didn’t want to play into a joke about him. That felt wrong. He said nothing else instead.

After a few moments, Dean spoke. “Sorry, was that out of line?”

“No,” Cas cleared his throat, he’d started thinking about Anna again. 

“Okay. What’re you thinking about Cas?”

Cas sighed, “Anna.” 

“Do you want to think about Anna or about something else?”

“I don’t know,” Cas whispered. He couldn’t muster more strength to do anything but that. He couldn’t speak anymore. There was so much wrong with him inside and Dean was too nice to realize it. 

“That’s okay, Cas.”

He could listen to Dean breathing on the phone and tried to focus on it. All day had been like this, his body was reacting violently to not being high. It was like his muscles began to twitch at a specific time when they realized they weren’t sedated. This was really his fault. Why did he start sedating himself?  
Focusing was so difficult, he didn’t know how much longer he had to do it. 

“Dean?” His voice was still furled somewhere in the back of his throat. 

“I’m right here, Cas.”

But that was all he could say before the pain started pulsating through his muscles. “Is this pain going to happen forever?”

“The internal pain or the physical pain, Cas?”

“Both.”

“Well, the internal pain, like emotional and psychological pain will definitely be there for a long time but eventually the physical pain wears off. It’s actually the easiest to get rid of. Like I said before, there are people who never even go through withdrawals. Every body is different.”

Cas grunted. 

Was it stupid to say that he was worried about Cas? And not just in the way that he worried over every person he spoke to, he was worried over Cas the way he’d be worried over Sammy or Jo or Benny. And he barely even knew the guy. 

“Listen, even now, I have really bad nights. I’ve been sober for two years Cas. And even now, on a really bad night, I just want to make my way over to some liquor store and drink it til I stop feeling so much. But that’s not the way to go, you hear me? My brother, Sammy—eh, Sam—he was addicted to heroin. I almost lost him Cas. He started on opiates that weren’t as strong or addictive as heroin. But there he was, on the mother of all opes. And it’s taken him a long time to get off that wagon. For the better part of these three years, he’s been dragging himself instead of walking. The withdrawal almost killed him. But he got through it, and so will you. You know why I say that Cas?”

“Hmm.”

“Because you’re strong and amazing and I can feel that from all the way over here. That’s progress Cas. You’re not high. It hurts, but you’re not high and you’re seeking help instead of succumbing to that mean monster inside of you. I’m proud of you, buddy.”

He wasn’t sure if he was already crying when Dean finished talking or if he started crying while Dean talked. But by the time Dean had closed his mouth—and silently facepalmed himself for sounding sappy and stupid—Castiel had one hand over his mouth and the other holding his cellphone so tight against his ear, he might have a semi-permanent press of his phone on the side of his face.

“But,” he sniffled and sobbed simultaneously, “you—“ pause “don’t even—“ sob “know me!” The last bit came out like a whine, like a long plead to Dean to open his eyes and realize that this wouldn’t work for Cas.  
Maybe for other people that deserve it but this stuff wouldn’t work for Castiel, queen of all fuck-ups. 

And who couldn’t differentiate when he was saying something outloud or thinking it because there he went telling Dean he was the queen of all fuck-ups. 

“Fuck…   
I’m sorry… you weren’t supposed to hear the last part… I don’t know why that happened…” His voice trailed off softly as he spoke. He began crying softly into the phone again. 

“Hey buddy, it’s okay. You hear me?” He took a deep breath. He’s had a lot of callers break down on the line before. He knows the strategies. He can find someone near Cas to go check up on him. They had connections at the center with people in all fifty states. No one has made him as uneasy as Cas, however. And that fact alone made him even more uneasy.

“Where do you live, Cas?” He opened a new page in his web browser as he spoke, his heart already racing and his body mildly sweating. He hated having anxiety like this. 

“New York,” Cas spoke through his sniffles. His head was pounding. It felt like there was a hammer beating down on him, crushing his skull into nothing. He felt like he was dying. 

After a few minutes of silence, Dean spoke. He’d been looking through the networks of helpers that Ellen and Bobby had put together a few months ago with the help of Ash. It connected previous addicts and sponsors, friends, family, and everything in-between, like a support system, in the entirety of the United States. He found there were a few in New York. 

“You still with me, Cas?”   
He grunted. 

“Listen, man, I know that I don’t know you. but you know what? You remind me a lot of my brother or me. You remind me a lot of the people that I know and lov—care about because we have all been exactly where you are. You’re bound to feel angry. You’re bound to not be okay Cas. It’s okay to not be okay. Just breathe with me, okay? I’m here and I’ll be here all night if you need me.”

Internally, he was punching himself. His cheeks were red because he knew Garth was going to give him shit about this chick-flick moment he was having. Whatever, man, he’s just trying to help the guy. 

“In through the nose, buddy, c’mon I wanna hear you,” he inhaled loudly through his own nose to demonstrate and encourage Cas. Cas’s breath was jagged and broken. But it came. 

“Good, now we hold it for a few seconds and let it out slowly. Let’s let it out together at the count of seven. One, two, three… four, five… six… seven…” He exhaled loudly and so did Cas, a sob mid-way to demonstrate he was still worked up and crying. 

“I know I don’t know you enough, man, but I care about you. You know why? Because I believe in you. I believe that the next time you want to get clean it won’t just be sixteen days. But twenty. And then thirty. And then forty. And then sixty. And then you’ll be an AA veteran like Ellen or Bobby and you’ll tell your getting clean stories like war stories and people will look up to you and you will encourage others. You know why I believe that, Cas?”

He grunted again. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t want to speak. The things that Dean was saying were so different to what he’d heard his whole life, it just didn’t make any sense. Dean had rendered him speechless. 

“Because you’ve got a desire to get sober, you’ve got a yearning for a fight. I admire that. Even calling here, going for a walk like you did today, making yourself the food that you did… Cas all of that makes you so powerful. All of that is so good for you.”

Several minutes went by before Cas composed himself. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes. The pounding headache was worsening by the minute and he was glad he hadn’t turned on any lights when he went to the living room because now the darkness was the only thing keeping him steady on the ground. 

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Thanks, shmanks. You can really thank me by telling me something about yourself. Let’s switch up the conversation, I’m getting tired of feeding your ego for now.” He chuckled into the microphone of his head set and hoped that Cas also found that line funny. It seemed like he did because Dean heard an almost-chuckle, mostly-sigh coming from the other end of the receiver. 

Cas had stopped crying, so at least that was something. But his headache was so strong and so overpowering that he couldn’t formulate a thought before it became too heavy on his mind an dhe had to discard it. He felt like every breath he took weighed a ton and the reason he was having such a headache was because his brain had shriveled up and died in lack of the drugs. At that moment, at the precise moment where Dean from Heaven’s Roadhouse asked him to tell him something about himself, he knew he had nothing to share. Nothing pleasant came to his mind. Nothing was okay inside him. He felt grotesque and sick and he didn’t want to share any of that with Dean. Dean was the only persnt hat was helping him.   
Instead, his mind stopped throbbing for the shortest second to let him have one thought. 

“Why can’t I say the word, Dean?” 

“What word, Cas?”

Silence, minutes of silence. 

“The word that you can’t say right now that I just asked you to say. Sorry ‘bout that, I do stupid things sometimes,” Dean smiled for Cas, trying to make that smile reach across the phone line and sixhundred miles North to the nice guy he just met on the phone.   
He thought back to the previous conversation that he and Cas had had. Was there a specific word that Cas refused saying or wouldn’t say?   
On his notepad, he wrote random words as they came to his mind but nothing seemed to suit until he remembered the first hour of their conversation yesterday.   
Addict. 

“Is it addict?” 

Cas mhm’ed. 

“You want to know why you can’t call yourself an addict while I am here calling myself and addict and telling you all the people that I know that are addicts?”

“Yes,” the octave-lower-than-should-be-legally-allowed raspy voice came back on the line and Dean perked up.

“Well, you know, Cas, the noun addict isn’t like some goofy-gubber song. It’s not like I’m a goofy-gubber, you’re a goofy-gubber. It’s more like a ‘I know you are but what am I?’ kind of thing. it’s the first step in the process for a reason. It’s not just a word here. And it’s not just a word to you. and it’s great that it’s not just a word to you, Cas. That means that taking the first step will be more isngificant for you because you’ve given meaning to that word already.”

“First step where?”

“To a lifetime of sobriety. Trust me, it’s not as weird as that sounds. I’m not advertising some whale-sperm shampoo here. I’m talking the real thing. How Ellen’s got fifteen plus years and Uncle Bobby’s got just about the same.”

“Oh,” I don’t think I want to hear about it anymore, Castiel thinks. He is tired. Talking about sobriety will only make him think of the things that he could do that he hasn’t done. It suddenly became very tiresome for him to be on the phone with Dean. His eyes drooped and he let them. He didn’t’ want to think about being clean for fifteen years. He was barely clean for one.   
With that, he let his thumb wander over the red button on his phone to end the call. He closed his eyes and fell asleep almost instantly.


	5. Chapter 5

A nightmare.   
Sweat, shakes. He woke up drenched and he woke up whimpering.   
Tears were pouring down his face without any specific motive. He wanted to get high, he felt a thirst in his veins for the panacea that he knew would make it all better.   
There was a flashback somewhere in the night. A hand raised, a belt in that hand, scorching hot pain on his hind, and a terrified Anna crying. “It hurts, it hurts.” She’d say. 

This wasn’t the first nightmare where he heard Anna say those all too real words.   
Who had been hurting Anna? 

They had also hurt him.   
He remembered something like ghost touches on his skin that he promised himself were not real because no one would ever hurt him that way and yet every Our Father in his memory brought the taste of blood into his mouth and the rancid scent of sweat, a groan, a grunt, a moan. “God Bless You,” the shadow would say into his ear. And he’d feel dirty again. 

 

Dean hadn’t slept well.   
A part of that had been because Kevin relapsed and the other part of it was because of Cas’s abrupt departure last night.   
He got up on Monday and went around the apartment that he shared with Sam. He picked up gigantor’s clothes from the various locations where they’d been thrown and threw them in the hamper he held against his hip. He stopped at the door before heading downstairs where socks, old basketball shorts, and a shirt Garth had gotten for him that said, “Kiss me, I’m Irish”. Whenever he wore the shirt he would remember how funny it had been when Garth realized that he was not, in fact, Irish in any way shape, or form. “But you have those luscious green forests as eyes, Dean-wean, you sure you’re not even a tiny percent Irish?” and then the classic, “do you want some Irish in you, Winchester?” and a wink that followed where Jo choked on her smoothie and ended up squirting it our of her nose in Heaven’s Roadhouse’s staff cafeteria. This was back when Dean and Benny were together, sorta. They were never really together but they were never really apart. After Benny became Dean’s sponsor, they’d been close. It was Benny who taught him a lot of the coping mechanisms that he had right now but they were never really serious. Although Dean had wanted them to be. Goddamn, he’d wanted them to be. 

He sighed and walked out of his apartment and down the stairs to the laundry room in the basement. The day didn’t feel as good as it should have. He usually had good days off, but last night he caught Jo crying and found out Kevin relapsed and was hospitalized. It ripped him in half during the night. He didn’t sleep and could barely breathe. He couldn’t stop thinking about Cas and the fact that he was doing this alone, he was at such a high risk of relapsing and overdosing, he felt so protective of Kevin. And now, Cas. 

He saw Sam and himself in Kevin. He mainly saw Sammy in Kevin. Brightest kid in the bunch, but all he wanted was those damn uppers. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the moving machine in front of him.  
He sent a prayer out there to the god he barely believed in to keep Kevin safe. And another to the angels he really believed in to keep an eye on Cas. 

 

“What did you do when you were not high?” 

“I used to run. And read. I used to read so much. I read to Anna, I read to myself, I read to Anna’s plants, the ones that we had in the kitchen in our old place. Anna would light incense and we would read together, she would draw with her eyes closed—that was her favorite pastime. She used to tell me that my voice could be the closest thing to god she’d ever know because it was so deep and so grounding. She used to really love me.” 

“That part, I can agree with buddy.   
And Cas?” There was a pause where she could hear Cas breathing. She continued, “I think she still loves you. She’s probably out there, the girl named after an angel, taking care of her brother named right after another angel, looking after you and clapping at how you are doing. She’s so proud of you in your process.” 

It has been a week and some change since Cas used. Every day he went for longer walks because the urge was so damn strong. It was Ellen’s suggestion. After he told her that he didn’t have a job because his father had left him so much inheritance, she told him that he needed to do something to pass the time. Calling the center worked, but so did walking around. Which he did for long periods of time.

After a long silence, Ellen spoke again.   
“Castiel? I have a question for you.” 

He nodded to himself and made a brief sound with his throat, confirming he heard her. 

“Would you be willing to meet a friend of ours?” 

“I don’t live in Florida.”

“I know, you silly goose, she lives in New York. She’s a damn good friend of ours here.”

“Who is she?”

“Well, for starters, she’s a psychic. Now, don’t be alarmed, she won’t tell you nothin’ you don’t wanna think about. She’s a licensed counselor, too.”

More silence.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to but if you refuse to go to AA meetings and you don’t want to do an intake facility, I would suggest you go see her. The first consultation is free and since you’re a friend o’ours, she’ll give you a discount.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to email you the information, alright? You can go see her at any time and any day or night, she won’t care. Believe me, she’s up the moment you think about going to visit her.”

“Okay.

Thank you.”

“Now don’t be no silly, no need to thank me. I’m here for this. I got you, I won’t let you waver if you don’t wanna waver. All you gotta do is open up for some help. No one’s gonna force ya.”

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Now get some shut eye, boy, don’t want you missing out on your morning routine now.”

He gave her a hushed, “yes,” before she continued. 

“And you know we are here twenty-four hours, seven days a week, no matter what. You call us and we got your back.”

The line went dead and he looked straight ahead at the window in front of him. It had been over a week since he’d last spoken to Dean. He thought about Dean a lot in the week that passed. He didn’t miss him, no, but he longed for him. He guessed that in some part of the world, that would be called missing, but he didn’t feel like he missed him. He felt like Dean was just missing from him, which was weird enough in itself. But how are you going to speak to a stranger over the phone wice or thrice in your life and then suddenly feel like there was some sort of profound bond that drew you to him? That in itself made him feel silly and childish. So he held off on calling. Dean had told him that he mainly worked nights and he got off at eight most mornings, so one morning he called at noon and spoke to a woman with a thick accent he just couldn’t pick up. 

The day after, he called again and again for her. Didn’t make him long for Dean any less but he did push through the loneliness with her. She reminded him of Anna. Anna always took care of him and never took no for an answer. Anna always knew what he’d say before he said it and always knew the ways to get him to talk when he didn’t even think of the words he wanted to say. Ellen, in turn, told him about how she was an alcoholic. She told him about Jo’s daddy dying. And she told him about her permanent liver damage. “You see, kid, now I wanna stay alive b’cuz Jo’s gotta have kids and they’ll be needing a firm hand from their grandma, ‘cause god knows Jo’s a softie and she’ll spoil them rotten.” 

In the week he’d spoken to Ellen, she helped him realize that the lack of money was not at all his problem, it was the abundance of time that he had on his hands. She helped him get a job at a coffee place where Ash, a junk food eatin’, mullet-wearing genius made crazy strong coffee and told hysterical stories. In a week he was dragging himself through the days, and in a few days after that, he called again.   
It was his daily routine. He usually spoke to Ellen. She’d memorized his number and took his calls all the time. What could she say? She had a sweet spot for that octave sweetheart on the other end of the line. 

Dean, on the other hand, had gone temporarily insane from worrying. He didn’t sleep for two days after Kevin, even though he knew he wasn’t in ICU anymore, and could receive visits at the rehab center, he was still worried out of his mind for Cas, his stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger. No one know this though, and just assumed his grief and insomnia came from not seeing Kevin around and from knowing this disease took more than half of his family to the gutter. So Ellen made an executive decision and kicked him out of Heaven’s Roadhouse’s call center, and into the rooms, where he would participate and monitor AA and NA meetings that took place there.

 

“Good evening at Heaven’s Roadhouse, my name is Dean, what’s up?” He knew it was unconventional but it got boring sometimes to say the same “Thank you for calling Heaven’s Roadhouse, this is Dean, how can I help you?”  
To him, it sounded like the Good Burger slogan, and no the hell no he was not going there. 

He didn’t know why. He had no idea why the moment he heard Dean’s voice, his stomach dropped and he started sweating. He felt ashamed and guilty that he hadn’t spoken to Dean, that he had just hung up on him and left him to figure things out. But who was to say that Dean even remembered him? Or that Dean even cared whether he was sober or thrown in some alleyway being used as a whore for a little bit of cash for dope?  
He felt stupid.   
So he pretended he didn’t know Dean. Cool and cold, that was Castiel’s way of dealing. 

“Hello, Dean.”

He almost groaned. He almost actually groaned to hear him. Like physically almost fucking groaned. How pathetic and disgusting. Hearing his voice took about a thousand pounds of weight on his shoulders, he physically felt his shoulder-blades untighten and breathe for the first time in almost two weeks. 

And yet, he wanted to scream with joy. Cas was still there. Cas was still here!   
The thought alone made him smile. 

“How’s your night going?” Alright, Winchester, try to be cool. The guy is someone over the phone who just so happens to have a great voice, it does not mean that he is at all interested in you or attractive. Plus, who calls a call center for addiction and ends up flirting with the guy on the other side of the line? No one. It was just Dean in his stupid little Dean world in his mind that made him think someone would actually want him while he was so damn broken and used already.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

There was an awkward pause, a pause that made Dean’s chest fill with something that he recognized as warmth, attachment, and feelings. And hell no, Dean Winchester was not feeling feelings. Why would he feel feelings that he knew were not real? It was just a guy with a really deep and somber voice that just so happened to make his abdomen tighten whenever he let his guard down for like a nanosecond. That could happen to anyone, no? 

He was wrapped up in his thoughts when he realized that he was still on the line with Cas, and that he should be talking because for one, that’s what he’s paid to do, and two, he really wanted Cas to stick around for the night. You know, just because he was going to be bored because Thursday nights were kind of dead in the center. Not for any other reason other than entertainment.

“So Cas, what’s going on? It’s been a while since we last spoke. How have the last few weeks been treating you?” Dean tried really hard not to passive aggressively mention that almost two weeks had passed since he’d spoken to Cas last but he failed. Way to be needier than you need to be, Winchester. This is why Sammy says you can’t get a date.

 

“I have been sober for a twenty days,” was all he said. It was all Castiel could muster to say. Why did he feel so shy and guarded around Dean COY? It’s not like Dean was someone who could judge him or god-forbid, be attracted to him. To him of all people. Cas really needed to step down from his little fantasy bubble and realize that Dean was not attracted, and never would be because he is a man on the phone five hundred miles away.

His first thought was “holy shit”, then he actually sait and blushed. “That’s so impressive, Cas.”

Cas smiled from the other end of the line. That is, he beamed. Ellen said his happiness is returning to him in dew drops as the drug fades out of him because he has been releasing the endorphins so greatly during his walks. 

“Today is a good day,” Cas said. 

“Really?” And what makes this day so great? Dean wanted to ask. He wanted Cas to say, “I’m talking to you again.” But before he let his mind wander into that unwandered land of fantasies and hopeful dreams, he continued, “That’s all I’ve wanted to hear from days, Cas,” I’ve missed you for days, Cas. Thank God and every angel in heaven he didn’t say that last part outloud because he was stupid and he was not in the mood to feel any stupider. After a few moments of silence, it was Cas that spoke. 

“I’m sorry we haven’t spoken in such a long time, Dean.”

And fuck if that wasn’t exactly what Dean needed to hear. Every sorrow and weight that burdened him and pressed into his spinal vertebrae, every tragic dream he’s had that has buried itself ominously inside his heart dissolved into the air. He felt it like a black smoke that came out of his mouth like hot gas.

“Cas, you don’t have to be sorry for that. I’m just a guy you met over the phone.”

“You are much more than that,” and it was in the way he said it, a way that was pure, uncensored, and celestially honest, that Dean Believed him for a simple minute. He was speechless, why could he not speak or retort or negate him? Why couldn’t Dean brush Cas’ honest voice out of his mind? Why did every fiber of his being want to make him believe this?

“I can hear you thinking over the phone, Dean,” and damned if Dean didn’t hear a smile in his voice, there was a familial and joking manner in the way Cas said it. “I have, however, been calling the center recently but I have not spoken to you. Not voluntarily, but because I believe I called on a very busy day and spoke to a woman.”

His first thought was Jo. The little asshole hadn’t even told him about it!

“She spoke to me about you without me mentioning you. I did not want to seem like I was biased to you so I never told her your name. She thinks very highly of you, Dean. Everyone there thinks very highly of you.”

“I… we… Cas… I don’t… We don’t need to speak about this, Cas. This isn’t about my recovery or me. It’s about you.” 

Totally blew over his head because the next thing Cas said was loaded without even meaning to be. “Her name is Ellen, I believe.”

“Ok, Cas,” his cheeks were burning and his body felt like it was on fire. Cas didn’t know anything. He didn’t even know Dean. The others, especially Ellen, just liked him because they had met him recently. There was no real evidence he was worth it. He wasn’t worth it. 

“Ellen got me a job.” Castiel sensed it was time to change the subject. “It’s with Ash, at his coffee shop slash internet café.”

“Really, Cas? That sounds awesome. I’ve known Ash for a bit but I’ve never been to New York. I would love to go there some day.” And there went the third or fourth genuine smile of the day.

“It’s nice. I have only been working there for a few days, Ash is teaching me a lot about computers that I did not know. He said that if I behave, he’ll teach me ‘cracking’, which I know absolutely nothing about.” Dean, however, is well-versed in “Ash-jargon” so he shook his head gently.

“You just be careful not to get in trouble with all that cracking stuff, Cas,” he said. 

Preceded by minutes of silence, Cas spoke; “Dean, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Cas, why?”

“I’m wondering.”

“Okay. 

So, Cas, how’s it like to have twenty days under your belt?”

Cas took a deep breath. “Awful, if I am honest. Devastatingly painful, if I am blunt.”

“I’m sorry, Cas.”  
Cas just breathed into the phone. He was again on the floor of his apartment, and it seemed to have gotten smaller, tighter, and hotter in the last few minutes.

“I just want this pain to end, Dean.”

“It will, Cas, just stay with me, okay?” Oh shut up, he didn’t mean it that way!

“Have you ever been in love, Dean?”

“Uh, what?”

“In love? Like with someone?”

“Not really, Cas. I mean I thought I was in love a few times but I don’t think that that’s something God’s got planned for me in my life.” Because everybody leaves me in the end, he wanted to say. But he just vowed his head and closed his eyes. He focused on Cas’ breath on his ear through his earpiece.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Yeah, well,” you don’t know me, he wanted to say, but Cas didn’t deserve that. Instead he said, “why do you ask, buddy? You in love with someone?”

“Yes. 

That’s what it feels like. I am in love with the drug. I think about her all the time. I want her to be mine forever. I want to be with her. I feel safe in her arms and I feel like the only thing in life that’s ever going to fix this feeling is being with her again. 

I can now understand the devastation that Romeo felt by not being with Juliet. I can now understand the desire Humbert had for his Dolores. You know what I’m saying? The blind dedication and determination, the blind belief, that Don Quijote had for his quest. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s obsession to Zelda Sayre. I feel the devotion to her that martyrs had for their beliefs and mission. 

Dean, I want the drug more than I want to live and talking to you right now is the only thing that is keeping me from getting high. I will find a way to get some tonight. She burns inside me.” Castiel had closed his eyes when he started talking. In his mind, he felt he was writing a love poem to her. In his mind, his lover was in front of him and he kneeled under, his knees scraping uneven concrete, begging for one more kiss, one last chance.

 

“Well, shit, Cas.”  
Dean scoffed. Unsure if it was to him or to Cas.  
“I have no experience with drugs. But I do have experience with booze and women and this disease and all I can tell you is that what you just told me tells me that you use these drugs to satisfy a craving that you have for something. What do you want to badly that you will go to hell and back for, Cas?”

“Humanity.   
I would go to hell for a… a profound bond, a connection, to feel. To feel. I would go to hell to feel what it’s like to be normal and to be sane. I want to go to hell and destroy every piece of me because I want what is impossible for me to have, Dean. I can’t ever have it and it gnaws at me from the inside out every waking hour of my damn life!” He hadn’t realized he was screaming until he stopped. His body was shaking, he was sobbing, and tears were pouring down his face with no control nor resistance. 

“Cas… buddy, you are human. You’re human and normal and real. You’re sane. There’s no reason to go to hell to feel, Cas. We as addicts, as diseased people, have to forgive ourselves and slow down sometimes. Sometimes, we want grandeurs of these feelings that we already have or are capable of having but all of that is masked by the drug, by the drink of choice, by the disease that tells us that we aren’t worthy of this, that we aren’t worthy of getting that. This isn’t true, Cas. You can feel Cas, you can form profound bonds, you can have connections, and you don’t have to go to the pits of hell to drown out that desire. The program helps with that a lot. 

I think, Cas, that you would benefit a lot from a rehabilitation center. I’m not just saying that because I work at one, but because it seems to me that a lot of these feelings of isolation are caused by your insecurities and made bigger by the disease, Cas. If you’re in a rehab center, everything can be taken in smaller steps. Maybe you rushed into this, and now this disease is trying to make you go back on your promise to yourself. “

By the time Dean had finished saying his last bit of conversation, the line went dead and Dean was left talking to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see,   
> I don't waste much time on intros, let me know what you think!   
> Second part coming up in a few days!


End file.
